Naeba Ski Resort. Niigata, Japan, July 27-29^th, 2007

“Lookin’ towards the future we were begging for the past. Well we know we’d had the good things, but those never seem to last. Oh please just last.” Okay, sure Modest Mouse wasn’t on this year’s Fuji Rock Festival bill, but oh how the good things associated lasted and lasted within in its 11^th edition held at Naeba Ski Resort.

Day 1 – Friday, July 27^th

After the opening-night fireworks and salvo to both liver and senses working overtime, I awake in the monumental sweat that greets the countless campers high above the river and Red Marquee Stage. Alas, this is par for the course, a golf course that is the home for the thousands laying feverish claim to the least angled plot of earth that still allows drainage for the imminent rains to come over the weekend. With seven consecutive runs earned, my eighth installment breathes a fresh consciousness among both new and veteran Fuji Rockers. As I unzip my tent, the refreshing breeze filing through the valley amid the overcast, yet warm skies beckons a lovely day ahead full of surprises as well as sure bets.

 While Damien Rice’s late cancellation coupled by Fishbone’s visa woes brings sighs, a cavalcade of alt heroes, known and soon-to-be-known begin this morning as the first notes ricochet and carry for a true lexicon of love high in the mountains. Stretching miles and miles, strewn alongside a river with stages and trails on both sides, another lovely lazy weekend of happy meandering is underway.

Day 3: Lost in the Loop

It’s often said that “everything old is new again,” but, in the cyclical world of rock-and-roll, perhaps it’s even more accurate to say that everything that was once cool will one day be cool again or at least ironic. Which is probably the best way to explain the latest incarnation of Lollapalooza, the festival which ushered in the alternative-rock era way back in 1991and has since come back from the dead (twice) only to emerge as one of the United States’ four marquee summer music festivals (along with Coachella, Bonnaroo and Austin City Limits).

Now in its third year as a single-weekend destination event held in Chicago’s Grant Park, a tree-lined oasis located a few blocks away and the Windy City’s metropolis-like subway line the Loop, Lollapalooza has carved out a niche as both the summer’s definitive urban rock-music experience and a place where the term alt-rock is still thrown around without an embarrassed sigh or an obligatory “post” as its pre-fix. And, while there was certainly nothing alternative about the names of Lollapalooza’s various stages, which included Citi, BMI, Bud Light, MySpace and the festival’s title sponsor AT&T, for three days 1990s titans like Peal Jam, Daft Punk, Perry Farrell and, um, Silverchair played for some of their largest crowds since flannel was still considered a fashion statement.

Though current-sensations like the beats-driven LCD Soundsystem, the equally danceable the Rapture, the beautifully distorted Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, electronic-favorite  STS9, the poetic TV on the Radio and the collective-size ensemble I’m From Barcelona, who played their first show on US soil Saturday morning, kept things current, by and large the day’s offerings favored, thick, big riffs over progressive guitar passages

or even indie-introspection. At times the 1990s nostalgia worked wonderfully, especially when the festival’s unofficial mayor, Eddie Vedder, took the stage to play with Ben Harper, Kings of Leon and, of course, Pearl Jam, who ran through a set of its greatest hits for a crowd that was watching Saved By the Bell when Ten hit stores and who arrived at Lollapalooza wearing post-hiatus Phish shirts while whistling festival performer Peter Bjorn and John’s infectious single “Young Folks.” But, unfortunately, many times, the weekend’s offerings blended into an indistinguishable wash of aggressive guitars.

In fact, perhaps the festival’s biggest surprises took place on the Kidz stage, whether it was cameos from Harper, Patti Smith or My Morning Jacket’s Jim James, who played  The Muppets’ “The Rainbow Connection” on a banjo. My Morning Jacket also brought out the weekend’s most unique guest, the Chicago Youth Symphony Orchestra, to flesh out favorites like “Golden” and a choice cover of Curtis Mayfield’s “Move on Up.” But, though Vedder’s most heartfelt lyrics attacked BP Amico and George W. Bush, some of his most famous from 1994’s “Corduroy” summed up the weekend’s festivities: “Everything has changed, absolutely nothings changed.”

Day 2: Hotel 71  

You’re not supposed to be beat up already, oh but I was.  Thursday, the night before the official start of the festival, there were a dozen or more industry parties, private events, and intimate shows, the big one of course being Pearl Jam.  But fuck that. I was on-stage, playing Guitar Hero with Josh Jackson, editor-in-chief of Paste Magazine, “opening” for a surprise solo-acoustic set by G. Love.  What else was there to do after that but continue drinking, getting into this and that until “this” became dawn and “that” became a challenging train ride around noon to the festival after first checking into the Hotel 71 and picking up my credentials.  It was a scene.  All this and still the festival had just opened for business. 

I could tell you about sets by bands such as the Polyphonic Spree or M.I.A.— and indeed they were both almost as hot as the temperature (though not quite as humid) — but there was only one real story, only one thing really worth writing home about on this orientation day, and that was Daft muthafuckin’ Punk who turned the main concert bowl into a dance therapy session that made it seem like the raves we all went to in the nineties were just a block or two back, on the corner in the rearview.  The elusive French duo proved that even punks will dance if you give them a beat, and house staples like “Daft Funk” can take over an entire cross-section of live music fans…including and even a couple thousand frat boys not really sure why they were at the AT&T stage while their friends were at Ben Harper, playing on the “other” main stage.  At the hotel at 7 AM, I even met a fella from LA who spins house music in warehouses in San Diego — friends of Glitch Mob and thus a friend of mine — still ranting about Daft Punk.

Lollapalooza is that kind of festival — whereas a Bonnaroo or a High Sierra offers a vacation from normal, a destination to the extraordinary, Lollapalooza, for all it’s talked up “interactivity,” is really a three-day mega-concert lacking much of the communal spirit and heart of those other festivals, despite a genuine effort from festival organizers.  That’s not to say fun wasn’t had — I raged Day One like it was Day Three already — but the draw here comes entirely from the stage itself down a one-way street, and the artist-audience energy exchange (a.k.a. synergy) that is so endemic to the greatest American music festivals is a foreign concept here.

Organizers are quick to point to the creative and, to their credit, considerable interactivity of the “Mindfield” and the tiny slice of the pie that they dedicate to keeping the festival carbon-neutral and eco-friendly; but clearly those organizers have never been to a Phish fest.  Nor does the quality come close to what Bonnaroo accomplishes in every corner.

Not that Lollapalooza is without its great ideas — it does have them (the availability and even presentation of information givers, “tag-a-kid,” and public gardens).   Talking of festival organizers, one clear highlight of Day One was Lollapalooza godfather Perry Farrell’s Satellite Party.  Ironically, it was a highlight because instead of focusing on original material, the set turned into a Perry Farrell revue, with numerous Jane’s Addiction classics (including “Been Caught Stealing,” “Jane Says,” “Stop,” and “Mountain Song”), as well as Porno For Pyros “We’ll Make Great Pets.”  These are all from Farrell’s past peaks. 

Again, the one untouchable was Daft Punk.  In fact, they were the one band that people lined up to see an hour before set-time, cheering when the curtain went up to prepare a stage set highlighted by a giant pyramid, on top of which the French duo used as a command booth to launch a 90-minute dance party in which they mashed up their own catalog, dropping and picking up bits and pieces of song along steady beats and non-stop action amidst the sickest light show imaginable. 

All told, there were some good points (good food cheap, beautiful location), some bad points (lack of heart, too much humidity), but it all worked out.   And now it’s off to a late-night party by Sound Tribe Sector Nine at the House of Blues — I’m just psyched because the venue is at the foot of two apartment buildings which happen to form the cover of Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.  That’s hot.  It’s also hot outside.  Tomorrow is supposed to be even hotter and I know I’ll probably get less than an hour sleep tonight.  Welcome to festival time where we play by tent city rules…even when we’re at four-star hotels in downtown Chicago. 

Lollapalooza Day 1: Via Chicago

In all honesty, for a while after my favorite touring bands veered off the road and into that never ending Shakedown Street in the sky, I was pretty apathetic about traveling around the country. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like visiting new places and, at some point, I still plan on conquering those six elusive states like kernels at the bottom of a bag of popcorn. It’s just that I didn’t have a reason to impulsively put up my ‘Out of Office’ auto-response, drop a weekend feeder in my fish tank and travel to some far off land in the hopes that I’d figure out where exactly on the Oregon trail soda became pop.

For, even though I may at times come off as a forgotten character from a bad teen movie, I genuinely believe there is something strangely cinematic about experiencing a foreign city through the eyes of a band like Phish, the Dead or Counting Crows (yes I just said that, I grew up in the suburbs during the 1990s, sue me). It gives a city context and a road trip a structure, if only because Live Nation parking lots tend to look the same across the country.  

So, as the traveling festival faded away like Rod Stewart's credibility from his time in the Faces and my favorite mega bands slowed to a Coventry crawl, I began to fear that one day I’d begin to consider my weekly Saturday walk to New York’s west side highway some sort of cross-country road trip. That is, of course, until I learned to stop worrying and love the festival.

In an era where even the country’s biggest bands are favoring intimacy over long tours, single city mega-festivals, or destination events as us soft-tongued journalists like to call them, have taken the place of traveling summer caravans. And, thankfully, I now have a new reason to keep my suitcase by my bed and try my hardest to score a variety letter in festival hopping.

Now, for those of you who haven’t met me while bouncing around New York City, where I store my laptop during the Relix work week, or read my blog, where I store my typos after office hours, here’s a little background on my somewhat, err, muddy relationship with the summer rock music festival. I started attending Phish festivals shortly after scoring my senior drivers license and, over the past decade, have adjusted my musical taste in post-hippie-rock-snob accordance with the day’s blogs and message boards. In that time I’ve been lucky enough to attend both traveling and stationary festivals organized by everyone from moe. to Blink-182 to B.B. King to the Disco Biscuits and, of course, Bell Atlantic, Nantucket Nectar and Jeep Grand Cherokee.  I’ve seen hipsters invade Langerado, hippies stake claim to Siren and the younger siblings of both groups converge at Dave Matthews Band’s Randall’s Island Summer Getaway, while somehow managing to explain to my mom, and later my boss, why I need to attend High Sierra, Vegoose, 10,000 Lakes and Wakarusa, even though Keller Williams played all three (ah, the beauty of the podcast).

I’ve visited the Acoustic Planet, seen indie-rock’s Unlimited Sunshine, Voted for Change, tasted the Green Apple, found my Citysol, counted to Live 8, spelled CMJ, been Snowcore and “jammed” on a River, Mountain, Cruise and Ski slope. Then again, I’ve also seen rock bands play the Montreal Jazz Fest, country groups at Jazz Aspen Snowmass and hip-hop collectives at the New Orleans Jazz Fest (but, oddly enough, jazz musicians at Rocks Off’s School of Rock festival). I’ve been hit by a bus at Berkfest, robbed at Bonnaroo and almost totaled my car at All Good. Unfortunately, I’ve also watched someone get struck by lighting at Gathering of the Vibes, fled from a tornado at Summer Camp and lost my shoes in Coventry’s mud. and, each and every summer, gone back for more (though, apparently, still haven’t figured out the importance of using suntan lotion). So, with that in mind, Lollapalooza seemed as good a reason as any to venture to Chicago this weekend and if only so I can spend three days listening to my college friend’s try and relate every site to see to one of New York’s hamlets (I hear they call “Scarsdale” “Highland Park” in these parts).

Ever since I first visited my girlfriend in Chicago during college I’ve always loved the Windy City because, for all intensive purposes, it is a more manageable version of my two favorite urban areas, New York or Los Angeles. It’s got everything that makes a city both charming and cool, from good pizza to clean subways and cursed baseball teams and, if my girlfriend’s parents didn’t make me sleep on the pullout coach, I’d probably have stayed there forever (or at least until the winter) And, while Chicago might at first seem like an odd place to throw a multi-band, multi-stage, multi-million dollar music festival like Lollapalooza, it is actually a note perfect location: big enough to absorb the festival’s shadow, but small enough for a sun baked visitor to feel at home.

Lollapalooza is also perfectly positioned to geographically balance out the country’s other three major rock-music festivals; Bonnaroo (which represents the east), Coachella (which represents the west) and Austin City Limits (which represents the gulf coast).  Plus, I hear the locals needed something to talk about besides the Bears. Though a good chunk bands overlap at all four events, each gathering has founds its own niche: hippie, indie-rock, singer/songwriter and alt-rock.With the exception of the later category I’ll let you decide which category matches which festival, but I’ll end this post by saying it feels fitting that  Pearl Jam, Daft Punk and, of course, Perry Farell himself are playing Lollapalooza this summer.

So, for the next three days Benjy and I will be onsite, podcasting some of our favorite bands, reporting on Eddie Vedder’s whereabouts and trying to find the original Pizza UNO.  Now if only someone would teach me to put on sunscreen.

Photos by:  Josh Baron

A short time before the second annual Green Apple Arts & Music Festival this past April, a three-city event in San Francisco, Chicago and its hometown, New York, founder and executive producer Peter Shapiro asked if I wanted to tag along over a 24-hour period to report what I saw and experienced as he visited each city.

Full disclosure: I regularly talked with Shapiro about the event’s development leading up to its execution (I also secured Taylor Hicks’ involvement with the event). I’ve worked with him as a producer for The Jammys, an event he founded and is also the executive producer of. Relix magazine, of which I am the executive editor, is a producer of both Green Apple and The Jammys.

In light of the recent discussions surrounding Al Gore’s Live Earth event, I thought it would be an interesting time to shed some light and insight on our own company’s efforts at environmentalism. These are my thoughts and reflections on what I saw and experienced between roughly 5 p.m., April 20th to 10 a.m. April 23rd.

 Full disclosure: I am a huge fan of Jefferson Airplane guitarist Jorma Kaukonen, both as an artist and as a person. My very first concer  was Hot Tuna (which Jorma formed with his Airplane bandmate, Jack Casady) at The Suffolk Forum on Long Island in 1977. I remember standing in front of the stage, being smashed into the barrier, barely able to breathe. It was awesome.

I drove to Jorma’s Fur Peace Ranch in Pomeroy, OH, with another born-and-bred New Yorker. As we passed sprawling hills and rustic buildings, I had visions of myself as Bill  Crystal in City Slickers. Jorma and his wife, Vanessa, opened the ranch, located on 120acres of beautiful farmland, in 1997. I never asked Jorma what “Fur Peace” actually stands for as, being bald, it wasn’t a line of conversation I was anxious to pursue.